


The Things Men Do

by julien (julie)



Category: The Devil's Own (1997)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-10-10
Updated: 1997-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/julien
Summary: NYPD Sergeant Tom O’Meara often reflects on all the cruel things he witnesses men doing during his working life, before coming home each night to his beloved wife and daughters. When young Irishman Rory Devaney comes to stay with the O’Meara family, Tom learns more about the friendship, comfort and even love that men can share. Until Tom finally discovers the truth about Rory, in the cruelest twist of all…
Relationships: Tom O'Meara/Francis McGuire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Things Men Do

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** In the film, I’m afraid that Tom and Rory end up in a shoot-out, and Rory ends up dead. The fic briefly deals with this, and with Tom’s grief and guilt. 
> 
> **First published:** 10 October 1997 in my zine Homosapien 5

# The Things Men Do 

♦

‘We had a nasty situation today,’ Tom said, before taking a sip of Guinness.

Tom’s drinking companion, Rory Devaney, echoed the move, taking a sip from his own glass of the dark brew. And then Rory simply continued to sit there, upright on the rickety stool, quiet amidst the comfortable brawl of Tom’s local pub late on a Friday night.

It was almost unnatural how quiet this young man was: Rory was in his early thirties, and his face in unguarded moments looked five years younger; yet he carried himself with a gentle imperviousness Tom had rarely seen. At that age Tom himself had been all barely focused energy; and even now at (God help him) forty-five, Tom had yet to attain Rory’s ability to contain himself with such dignity.

‘Aye,’ Rory eventually prompted in his fresh-off-the-boat lilt. When Tom raised an eyebrow, having forgotten what he was talking of, Rory continued, ‘You had a nasty situation today, Sergeant O’Meara.’

‘Yeah.’ Tom shook his head in a recurrence of disbelief. ‘A domestic violence case. The man was forcing his wife’s hand into a pot of boiling water; she was cooking pasta, and the children were all sitting there at the kitchen table, everyone crying their eyes out…’

Even forever-calm Rory winced a little at the image.

‘The burns were… not pleasant.’ Tom lifted his glass, put it down again without taking a mouthful, and asked, ‘What makes a man do that kind of thing?’ He was honestly wanting to know, though he didn’t really expect he’d ever find an answer.

A pause from Rory while he sipped at his Guinness. Then he turned his gaze directly on Tom, and said, ‘I think of your family, and I can’t comprehend it either.’

Tom grimaced, and checked his watch. ‘Speaking of which…’ Sheila expected him home by a reasonable hour: the girls would be asleep by now, but Sheila found it difficult to settle until Tom was home and the house was secure. It had been a matter of some rejoicing when Tom made Sergeant and was no longer required to work the night-shift.

Rory was taking a couple of long swallows, though this was not a brew for rushing, and put his glass down three-quarters finished. A nod indicated that he was ready to leave. Tom smiled at the old-fashioned politeness: an American would have felt free to finish his drink and follow on later; Rory didn’t even question let alone bend or break the house rules.

The two men walked the six blocks back to Tom’s home, with their hands stuffed in their coat pockets and their breaths fogging. The first time they’d done this, only a few days after Rory had arrived in America and begun boarding with the O’Meara family, there was snow on the ground where the sun hadn’t reached that day. Now, a little over three weeks later, the weather had finally turned and was heading for spring, though it was still damned cold.

Three weeks, Tom reflected: not long in the scheme of things, but already he and Rory had formed a habit or two. Much as Tom adored his family, he was glad to finally have another man in the house; and much as Tom appreciated working with the other cops, both male and female, he was glad to finally have someone outside of all that, whom he could tentatively begin thinking of as a friend, maybe.

Tom had gotten the distinct impression that Rory was rather a loner: he never mentioned any friends or even acquaintances at the building site where he worked; and there were few (if any, now Tom thought of it) references to people Rory had left behind in Ireland. Nevertheless, Rory seemed glad enough of Tom’s companionship.

They walked down to the pub two or three times a week now, spending a few late hours together drinking Guinness and playing pool. Rory always won the latter, possessed of a deadly skill with a cue. And then they walked home, mostly in silence, and parted ways in the front hall – while Tom locked the house up for the night, Rory headed down to the makeshift bedroom in the basement that Tom had fixed up for him.

Tonight, however, Rory said, ‘Do you feel like one last beer?’ Tom was too surprised to demur, and Rory barely waited for a reply in any case. ‘I have a few bottles keeping cold. When you’re done up here, come down and share one with me.’

‘All right,’ Tom murmured. He supposed Sheila wouldn’t mind: she’d have heard them come in, and was probably falling asleep now, knowing all was safe. Rory had gone already, leaving the door to the basement ajar, so Tom went around checking the external doors and windows, and then followed him down.

Rory had fetched a bottle of beer from the little bathroom: the bottle was dripping, and had presumably been standing in cold water. As the younger man twisted the lid open, he ambled over to the single bed, sitting there rather than on the sofa. Not bothering to comment on this, Tom joined him on the bed, and they passed the bottle between them, drinking a mouthful or two at a time, not deigning to wipe the neck clean.

The mutual silence left Tom to his own thoughts. During these late evenings and other idle moments he was currently puzzling over whether Rory was truly wise or not. That cool and easy self-possession could be interpreted as the result of wisdom, though it might be nothing more than heavy defenses. The opinions Rory gave were certainly knowledgeable beyond his years, the kind of knowledge learned through a hard life rather than through schooling – but Rory actually shared very few opinions, which might indicate that his wisdom was too narrowly focused. Rory Devaney was a bit of an enigma; a mystery to whom Tom found himself drawn.

In any case, Rory’s wisdom was not of a comfortable kind. Tom said, ‘Belfast must have been a difficult place to grow up in.’ Certainly not like Tom’s childhood here in Staten Island.

Rory considered Tom’s observation for a moment, in that unemotional way he had. And then he offered, ‘The violence becomes background noise. When I first came here, my ears rang with the silence.’

Tom smiled at him, appreciative of the image and sympathetic to what it conveyed. Perhaps Rory gave the impression of wisdom because he had the knack of delivering his ideas with color and feeling. Tom, proud of his dual heritage (though he was really nothing more or less than American), wondered if Rory had the alleged Irish talent for story-telling…

…tale-spinning, spell-binding. The young man was charming, that was for sure. The attractions of Rory’s mystery, politeness, wisdom and dignity were added to by his beautiful voice and the upright bearing of his slim figure. Not to mention the loveliness of a face that even scruffy hair and stubble could not detract from.

The O’Meara women, every one of them, thought their boarder was cute, or whatever the current word was. (Bitching. Groovy had recently had an amusing resurgence.) And Tom could see why: Rory was indeed handsome; and he’d brought something both fresh and familiar to the family home, that musical lilt of his conjuring far-away magic from the long-ago Emerald Isle.

Rory Devaney was a delight.

♦

His real name was Francis McGuire, and for some reason Frankie had never entirely fathomed he had earned the nickname Frankie the Angel. He trusted it had something to do with being an avenging angel, for that was exactly what his father deserved: the righteousness of the archangel Michael smiting and slaying the enemy with his flaming sword… But no matter how tirelessly the man Frankie sought vengeance, he knew it would never be enough to end the shock of eight-year-old Francis sitting at his kitchen table watching his Da be shot dead.

His real name was Frankie, but he didn’t often recall that these days. At first he’d been disciplined in thinking of himself as Rory for the sake of maintaining his cover. But then the new name had begun to grow on him; it began to put down roots, and wind its tendrils around the stone of his heart. Frankie wasn’t his American name, after all. And Rory Devaney was someone whom the O’Meara family liked. Rory was what Tom called him.

‘I’ve lived with women all my life,’ Tom was saying now; and Rory turned his gaze on him, paying the man the attention he deserved. ‘My father died when I was young –’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rory interrupted him to murmur. He hadn’t known they had that in common.

Tom nodded in good-natured acknowledgment of the sympathy. What else was there to say? They each sipped at their Guinness while the pub’s clamor rose around them, and then Tom continued, ‘I grew up in a house with two sisters, my mother, an aunt and my grandmother… I went to the first co‑ed school set up here, and of my three closest friends one was a woman. That was unusual back then, being friends with a girl. The two guys – one went to college in Boston, and the other wanted to become an actor so he moved to LA. The woman –’ Tom smiled, sheepishly happy. ‘Well, I married her. We were only going to have two kids, but I wanted a son so we tried one last time. Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ my daughters –’

‘I know you do.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Aye,’ Rory reassured him. ‘I see it every day.’

Tom nodded again, his vulnerability writ large across his face. After a moment he drained the last of his Guinness, and said, ‘We’d better get home.’

_Home_. ‘Aye,’ Rory said. And surprisingly enough the O’Meara place had become home, for these few months. Tom thought Rory had emigrated, but that just wasn’t so. Rory was only here for a short while, and then Frankie would return to Ireland.

The two men began walking, shoulder to shoulder in the cold night air. Tom was apparently feeling talkative. ‘Being a cop,’ he said, ‘I see all the awful things men are capable of.’

_Aye, the awful things_ … Surprisingly enough this policeman had become a friend, when Tom O’Meara was actually too decent a man to approve in any way of Francis McGuire. It was quite a stupid situation Rory had gotten himself into. Frankie never knew whether to laugh or curse when he thought of the Supreme Court Judge who’d sponsored Rory Devaney coming to America, and who’d arranged lodgings with a cop for the terrorist, reasoning there was no safer place for Frankie to be.

‘Sometimes,’ Tom confessed, ‘I find it hard to like men very much.’

A few steps on, Rory realized that Tom was looking to him for a reaction. He offered the older man a smile, a small smile betraying just enough fondness for Tom to read. Rory said, ‘You’ll come share a beer with me?’

It was a ritual they’d developed, that they’d spend time at the pub, walk home, and then Tom would come down to Rory’s room for a last drink together, while Rory educated Tom by playing him Irish music. U2, mostly; quietly so they didn’t disturb Sheila or the girls asleep in the second-floor bedrooms.

‘Sure,’ Tom replied with a nod.

Tonight Rory already had a tape loaded into his new cassette player; the latter was made in Japan, and bought in America the land of plenty. He pressed the play button, and a mournful guitar accompanied him as he fetched a bottle of beer. When Rory came out of the bathroom, he found Tom standing there stranded on the stairs, frowning in confusion at the music.

‘The Smiths,’ Rory told him. ‘Cheerful fuckers, aren’t they?’

Tom laughed, but said, ‘This is unexpected.’

Rory gave him a shrug, and sat on the bed in his usual place. Tom joined him, and they passed the beer back and forth, considering the music.

The Smiths were an English group, that was what Tom found unexpected. Not that Tom himself had ever evinced strong feelings either way. However, it had cost Rory to admit even to himself that he liked anything belonging to the enemy. There was a song he’d heard on the radio while working on the boat, a particular song that had spoken to something deep within him, something even deeper than his hatred for the men who’d killed his father. Frankie had clearly forgotten there was anything deeper within him than his never-ending yearning for vengeance, but it seemed that was so.

The mesmerizing plaintiveness of _How Soon is Now?_ began. Rory sat there listening, head tilted. Tom seemed as caught up in it as Rory was. Morrissey sang, _I am the son and heir of nothing in particular_ … ‘Don’t worry,’ Rory murmured; ‘we’ll skip _Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now_. That’s too depressing even for me.’

An obedient smile, but apparently Tom didn’t want to break the quiet mood spun by the song. That was fine; Rory hadn’t thought it would be this easy. Tom passed him the beer, and the younger man stood, invited Tom to stand as well with a gesture from one hand and a lift of his brow. Tom did so, not understanding why.

Rory took a swig of the beer, swaying gently to the rhythm, held the bottle out towards Tom. And when Tom stepped closer, Rory moved into his arms, began slow-dancing with the man as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bewildered, Tom simply stood there for long moments while Rory shifted in his arms. When the beer was pressed into his open hand, Tom quickly swallowed a mouthful, and then another; his mouth was left provocatively moist. The music continued, and Rory lifted the beer to his own lips, meeting Tom’s gaze unabashed. ‘Dance with me,’ Rory said.

At last Tom lifted his arms, and held Rory in a loose embrace while beginning to let the music move through him. Hands resting lightly on Rory’s shoulders and back, Tom’s expression was open, lost, impressionable. They were about the same height; Tom didn’t even flinch away from the directness of Rory’s searching gaze.

It was continually amazing to Frankie that a man would let himself be that vulnerable. As for Rory, he was unbearably flattered by it, for he’d only ever seen Tom like this with himself and Sheila; not even the three girls received the blessing of this utter trust. Echoing Morrissey, Rory murmured, ‘ _I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does_.’

Heartfelt regret fell across Tom’s face. ‘I can’t.’

Smiling, hastening to reassure him, Rory said, ‘No, just dance with me.’

Apparently Tom O’Meara could find it in himself to do that. The two of them slow-danced, swaying to and fro in place, finishing off the beer between them. Rory reached to set the empty bottle out of the way on a shelf, and they shared a laugh: nothing was more than an arm’s length away down here in the cramped basement.

And that was when Rory’s song began. He couldn’t have timed it any better than this. Smile still softening his lips, Rory quietly sang along… ‘ _Good times, for a change. See, the luck I’ve had would make a good man turn bad. So please please please let me, let me, let me, let me get what I want this time_.’

Tom was watching him, seeing into the heart of him. Seeing Rory’s heart laid bare. And that was all right, even though the vulnerability hurt so much it set off all of his fear’s alarm bells; that was all right, for Rory Devaney had nothing to hide from this man.

‘ _Haven’t had a dream in a long time. See, the life I’ve had would make a good man bad. So for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows it would be the first time. Lord knows it would be the first time_.’

They were staring at each other, Rory and Tom, close in each other’s arms. The music closed with sweet poignancy, the tape reached the end, and the machine stopped playing with a harsh click. Rory was afraid that the spell would be broken, but Tom stayed where he was. Quiet stretched, and Rory became aware of the sound of his own heightened breathing. Instinct made him damp it down: he had been trained to wait for hours without betraying himself by the slightest noise.

At last Tom gruffly whispered, ‘What is it you want?’

Rory would be content with a kiss. He hated to admit it, but he’d be damnably _happy_ with nothing more than a kiss. Slowly, giving Tom every chance to pull away, Rory leaned in close, closer. Their mouths met, a hushed moment passed. And then Tom initiated a kiss full of generosity and meaning. It was like nothing Rory – or Frankie – had ever felt before.

There was love in it, and an honest kind of passion. Tom gave himself to the kiss unreservedly; and though the older man obviously knew what he was doing, he seemed full of wonder and discovery. For those few moments, Tom O’Meara was thoroughly intrigued by Rory Devaney.

But perhaps Tom could allow himself that brief indulgence because there was no question of Rory being blessed with more. Eventually the older man lifted his head and drew away from Rory’s embrace. There was compassion all over Tom’s completely unguarded face. And, well, compassion was far far better than nothing.

With a quiet nod goodnight, Tom turned and headed up the stairs. Rory watched him go, feeling torn and aching and ecstatic all at once. Smiling, Rory lay himself down fully-clothed on his narrow bed; and he barely managed to turn the lamp off before falling asleep.

♦

Sergeant Tom O’Meara tiptoed through the entire next day, glancing warily about him, waiting for that bolt of lightning. He’d kissed someone other than his wife – he’d kissed a _man_ , for God’s sake. And wasn’t that obvious just by looking at him? Why wasn’t his world falling down around his ears?

Sitting over lunch in their regular diner, Tom stared at his patrol partner thinking, _If you only knew_ … What would the reaction be if Eddie Diaz discovered his Sergeant and closest colleague was a – what? Words ugly in intent might be used; none of them quite fitting how Tom thought of himself.

‘What?’ Eddie eventually demanded, made uncomfortable by Tom’s quiet scrutiny.

‘Nothing,’ Tom demurred. ‘It’s nothing.’

Did one kiss make him a faggot? A queer? Gay? Bisexual. Tom supposed that some people would think so. But all Tom remembered was his friend, this young man Tom cared about, yearning after something sweet and harmless – and himself daring to give Rory what he wanted. Nothing more to it than that.

Arriving home that night, Tom was greeted by his wife with as much warmth as ever; any lack of attention was easily explained away by the fact she’d only just got home herself, and needed to cook dinner for the six of them. Tom pressed an extra kiss to her temple, and began peeling potatoes. His daughters had either jumped him or ignored him as was their usual wont. It seemed that none of the many riches in Tom’s life were diminished in any way.

Apparently God had seen fit to overlook this minor indiscretion, or perhaps He wasn’t as wrathful about such matters as some people would like others to believe. So maybe Tom had gotten away with it…

The front door opened and closed, and the three girls all found reasons (either utterly artless, or obvious in their devious subtlety) to wander past and greet Rory. Tom’s heart sped up for the moments before that handsome face appeared in the kitchen; and then Rory’s easy smile resettled him. The young man’s expression was warm, as warm as it had always been, no more and no less.

He’d brought the milk, bread and bananas Sheila had expressed a need for that morning; apparently Rory had figured that her husband would forget. They all laughed over Tom’s absent-mindedness being such a well-known foible.

Annie, the youngest girl, wandered in and slipped her hand trustingly into Rory’s; she wanted him to read a story to her. Of course Rory agreed. Tom wondered if the young man knew that the other girls were jealous of Annie: being older, and past puberty, Morgan and Bridget were far too self-conscious to even attempt any of the methods with which the youngest girl had inveigled her way into Rory’s heart.

Before Rory left the kitchen, which was really too small even for two to be working in, Tom asked, ‘How was your day?’

A graceful shrug of those shoulders. ‘Busy.’

‘Come down the pub tonight?’

Rory’s gaze met his, those blue eyes as appealing as ever. ‘I’d like that.’ And then Annie claimed Rory for her own.

Tom turned back to the potatoes, smiled as Sheila brushed past him even though the kitchen wasn’t quite _that_ small.

What if this wasn’t a matter of simply getting away with it? What if the kiss had been meant to be? What if it was _right_ somehow that he’d given Rory one brief moment of friendly intimacy? What then?

Why wasn’t the sky falling?

♦

Another beer, another slow-dance (to a U2 song), another kiss. Rory let it happen, let Tom do whatever Tom felt comfortable with; and he was amply rewarded, for Tom’s intensity increased so that even though it was one simple kiss Rory was left trying not to gasp. Another look of compassion (though tinged with amusement this time), as the man turned away. It seemed that Tom was happy with this situation…

Wanting more than this, Rory nevertheless knew he’d be crazy to push any harder; there was no point in taking the risk of frightening Tom away. Rory was all too aware that he’d be leaving America soon, perhaps in little more than a month: once he’d finished making the boat seaworthy, once he’d successfully purchased the missiles, then Frankie would be sailing back across the Atlantic Ocean. With that in mind, Rory was foolishly tempted to rush Tom, though it was surely better to enjoy what he had, and not be greedy. Rory knew about patience, and he knew about discipline.

_Another kiss_ … He tried to be that blasé, that dismissive, but he couldn’t. This was too rare in Rory’s experience. Frankie had never received this kind of affection. This blessed ability, this skillful attention. Tom knew what it was to make love; Frankie barely had the first idea.

It had been two nights in a row now, very indulgent of them both; Rory bet Tom would cool it for a night or more. No matter. Rory loved what he’d already had, and he was sure there was another kiss waiting for him in the near future. He smiled in anticipation, and then gently touched fingertips to his own lips, trying to recapture the feel of Tom’s mouth on his. The sensation fell far short of the original, but it would do for solitary comfort. Aye, it would do until he had better memories to replace it with…

♦

Tom sat at the bar, with a pint of Guinness in hand and Rory Devaney at his side, trying to remember how many times the two men had kissed. It had been a couple of weeks or more since the first, so could it have been seven or eight times now that Tom had accompanied Rory down to the basement and danced with him and kissed him…? The fact that he couldn’t exactly remember meant Tom was in over his head.

Actually, Tom was beginning to wonder if something more could happen between them. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but Tom was certain that Rory himself had a few ideas… The young man was thoroughly bewitching after a kiss: eyes blue with a damp heat; lips swollen and parted over panting breath; face both calm and imploring, betraying Rory’s internal struggle. Why was Rory being so reticent, why wouldn’t he at least ask? Was it that old-fashioned politeness of his, worrying over the seduction of a married man? Or did Rory suspect that Tom was being plenty adventurous enough already for a guy who’d gone decades without casting a lusty eye over anyone of his own gender?

Well, just thinking about the possibility of taking another step was getting Tom suitably flustered. Whatever it was that Rory wanted to happen next, well, Tom had just about gotten to the point where he figured that he wanted it, too.

On that realization, Tom lifted his head and looked at Rory. They contemplated each other for a long moment, an island of quiet in the continual turmoil of the pub; and eventually Rory’s mouth curled into a happy smile. Tom wondered if he’d been understood…

Oh yeah – Tom was in way over his head, and he was loving every minute of it.

Rory took a sip of his Guinness, and seemed about to speak – Tom’s heart pounded, afraid that something unwise would be declared here in this public place – but Rory simply asked, ‘What did the men do today?’

This topic had become an ongoing conversation between them: what awful things Tom had witnessed in the line of duty that day, what crimes against humanity had been committed by the male of the species. Tom tilted his head for a moment, wondering if it wasn’t time to quit being so unreservedly harsh. ‘As a cop,’ he said, ‘I see a lot of bad things. It starts to feel as if there’s nothing else out there.’

‘But then you go home,’ Rory reminded him.

‘Yeah, there are only good things there. Home reminds me of what I do it for.’

‘Aye, you’re a lucky man.’

A silence stretched between them as they continued to each nurse their Guinness. It was a comfortable silence, but Tom became aware that he hadn’t finished talking yet. He stated the obvious, ‘But home is all women,’ and then continued, ‘I had those two friends in school I was telling you about, but I haven’t really had a man for a friend since then. None of the guys I work with. Well, there’s Eddie, kind of, but now I’m a Sergeant I have to be a bit… removed from the camaraderie. And other people – well, no one’s ever really comfortable around a cop. I never met anyone here,’ and Tom indicated the pub, broadened the gesture to include his whole neighborhood, ‘I never met anyone who’d just relax and ignore the uniform. They must think I’m going to wander in here and say, Let me buy you a beer, and by the way I saw you doing sixty in a fifty-five zone yesterday, I’ll write you a ticket.’

Rory laughed at this preposterous notion, and then he offered, ‘You and me, Tom; we’re friends.’

A broad smile tugged at Tom’s mouth. The unexpectedness of this statement, and Rory’s readiness to voice Tom’s obvious conclusion, made it easier for Tom to then go the whole nine yards and reply, ‘I guess I was ready to meet a man who could show a little tenderness. The way you are with Annie,’ Tom rushed on, mortified now that the words were spoken and hanging there between them, ‘is wonderful.’

‘Aye,’ Rory said with a smile, wry for Tom and gentle for his daughter, ‘Annie is the sweetest child.’

_So he’s wonderful with Annie, what’s new?_ Tom silently ranted. _Sheila could have told him that. You are so **pathetic** , O’Meara_… But, hell, it seemed he’d been understood, and what else mattered? Leaving the kisses aside for the moment, Tom had been wanting someone like Rory in his life. Wanting a man like Rory. And Rory knew that.

Did Rory know that? The younger man seemed lost in unhappy thought.

Tom tried, ‘Something’s bothering you? About Annie?’

‘No, of course not,’ Rory replied, offering Tom another smile. And Tom left it at that.

On the walk home, Tom began talking about what the men did that day. ‘We had a double homicide. There were these two brothers, both in love with the same woman. She finally made her choice, and began seeing one of them – and the other killed her. The body was found this morning. We begin making inquiries, gathering evidence, we’re slowly getting ready to make an arrest – but the one who’d been the successful lover takes the law into his own hands and kills his brother.’ Tom shook his head. ‘Three lives destroyed, and for what? Jealousy and revenge. I can understand the imperative – but acting on it, that’s a terrible thing.’

Silence, but for their footsteps, rhythms slightly mismatched. Rory seemed lost in his own considerations once more, and perhaps hadn’t listened to Tom’s story. But that was all right; Tom rarely had even this much of an audience.

For the first time since they’d begun, however, it seemed the kiss might not happen. When he’d finished locking up the house, Tom headed down the stairs into the basement – and instead of sitting there on the bed waiting for Tom with a beer, Rory was standing nowhere in particular with his hands empty. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, and then Tom deliberately walked closer to his friend.

Tom had intended to simply gather Rory into an embrace, and tradition be damned; but just as Tom got within reach Rory stopped him with a whisper. ‘You see the best in people, Tom,’ he said, ‘and that’s a fine thing, I hope that never changes. But you’ll be disappointed in me.’

‘No, I won’t,’ Tom replied with absolute certainty. And he lifted his arms, stepped close, drew Rory into a hug. It wasn’t a dance, there was no music; this was a genuine hug. Tom remembered – oh, it seemed like hours ago now, days ago – Tom remembered deciding to take the next step with this man. ‘Rory,’ he whispered.

‘Aye…’ came the hushed reply, fearful in anticipation. Rory’s hands settled tentatively on Tom’s waist. Their heads were bent together, tucked in against each other’s shoulder; Rory shifted a little, caressing Tom with silky hair, firm jaw, fresh skin.

Tom shivered. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked, the words raw in his throat. ‘Rory. I want it, too.’

A still moment. And then Rory slowly lifted his head, dared to meet Tom’s gaze. Yes, it was apparently a feat of bravery for Rory to do that. Tom let his face reveal his yearning, his willingness, trusting that Rory knew him well enough by now not to need any more words. There were no more words available to Tom, in any case, because Tom barely knew what it was that he wanted – only that he did _want_.

At last Rory became convinced: Tom was his, for the moment, to do with as he would. Need abruptly fell through Rory’s expression, and he cast about him, looked around while his hands clutched and kneaded at Tom’s waist, looked around as if searching for something. Unable to find whatever it was, Rory turned to Tom again – crushed their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

There was no fighting it, no resisting Rory’s onslaught, and anyway Tom didn’t want to resist – he went with it, surrendered to it, gathering that slim strong body deeper into his arms, opening himself further to the kiss. Forceful rather than sweet, hot rather than harmless. Surprising, thrilling. Tom went with it.

Relentless, hardly bothering to surface for air, Rory began wrestling Tom back, one step, two, a third – until he was hard against the brick wall and Rory was pushing up against him, again searching desperately around between kisses. Rory’s hands were frantic, one moment caressing Tom’s face, and the next brutally exploring the shape of him, torso and throat, arms and hips.

The button of Tom’s jeans was popped open, and a hand plunged inside.

Tom broke the kiss, gasped in shock, head rearing back so swiftly that he only just remembered the rough bricks in time enough to avoid gaining himself a concussion; he let his eyes drift closed for a moment as Rory efficiently found his goal. Those long fine fingers wrapped around Tom’s hardness, firmly explored his length and breadth, reconnoitering the terrain. Focusing again, Tom discovered Rory watching him, hunger naked on the young man’s face.

Well, if Tom had expected anything in particular, it involved the bed and taking their clothes off. But if this was how Rory wanted it to be, that was fine, too. In fact, Tom was embarrassingly close to finishing already. Where was his stamina, his endurance…?

‘Is this what men do?’ Tom asked, breathless.

‘It’s what boys do,’ Rory replied, his voice dismissive, but everything else about him full of need.

A knowledgeable stroke began then; a sinfully knowledgeable stroke began destroying Tom. How could something so simple possibly be this good? Rory’s hand provided exactly the pressure, exactly the rhythm, exactly the caress of thumb sweeping over his cockhead… So close now, even closer, and Tom barely knew whether to welcome the orgasm or feel too overwhelmed to cope –

There! Devastation; powerful relief more than pleasure; so that even as his seed pulsed out of him, Tom was thinking greedily of the next time, of taking it slower and indulging this man’s sweetness rather than his ruthlessness. And Rory watched him through it all, saw Tom through every quake, drinking in the sight of him…

Tom was left stunned, breathless, his arms hungrily encircling enfolding this new lover, all of Tom shifting restless caught there against the wall. And there was Rory’s completion to think of. ‘What…’ Tom muttered, ‘what should I –’

‘Hold me,’ said Rory, and that knowing hand left Tom, slid into Rory’s own jeans instead. Weight resting against Tom, slim masculinity stretching and pushing in a bodily caress, Rory quickly bringing himself off; while Tom tried to accommodate him, tried to make it good for him, hugging and holding him, pressing kisses to his hair, trying to coax Rory’s face out from where it was buried against Tom’s throat and shoulder. A silenced groan, and Rory was shuddering, shaking, finished.

There seemed nothing to say. The two men hung on to each other for a time, cast adrift against that wall; and then at last they parted. Solemn looks were exchanged, and Tom lifted a hand to offer a last caress of his palm to that handsome face. And then Tom left the basement, and climbed the stairs up to where his wife lay asleep in bed.

♦

Tom thought Rory was working on a construction site, good honest labor putting up an apartment block or some such thing, but that was just a cover; Frankie actually spent his days working on an old boat with his comrade Sean. _Voyager_ , the flagship of the Irish Republican Navy… The plan was that once the purchase of a hold-full of stinger missiles had been finalized (the deal arranged and paid for through people here in America), Frankie and Sean would sail the weapons back to Ireland.

Sean had already been so seduced by America and rampant consumerism that his first question on meeting up with Frankie had been, ‘Are we really going to go through with this?’

‘Yes,’ Frankie had firmly replied; for there was no question about it in his mind.

Rory hadn’t succumbed to the fancy clothes and fancier automobiles, as Sean had. But there was no denying that Rory was enjoying himself in this land of freedom and plenty. Frankie had forgotten there was a world outside Belfast where violence wasn’t the norm. The way Sergeant O’Meara talked, you’d think half the citizens of New York were evil incarnate; but Tom in his innocence had no conception of what it was like to live in a war zone.

Frankie had forgotten what it was to have a family, to live with people who loved each other, to be sure of a hot meal every night. It wasn’t just the O’Mearas, though: working on the boat reminded him of his childhood on the remote and beautiful Irish coast, recalled skills Frankie had learned from his father the fisherman.

There were simple joys aplenty to be found in the hard work of making the _Voyager_ seaworthy. Sean was not above mucking around like the boy-at-heart he’d always be. Today they were putting a second layer of paint on the hull, a rusty pink color; somehow Sean’s brush ended up in Rory’s face, leaving what felt like a splodge of paint all down his nose and left cheek. While it was still wet, Rory grabbed the guy and rubbed his face back and forth against Sean’s, so they both ended up patterned in pink dabs and swirls. Sean thought it was hilarious, and Rory couldn’t help but chuckle, though he’d have to clean up with liberal amounts of turps before he went home that night. 

_Home_. Aye, home these days was a family meal, helping Sheila wash up, reading a story to Annie, having a Guinness with Tom, and then heading down to the basement where the man blessed Rory with ten minutes of potent pleasure.

He and Tom jerked each other off, a prosaic act that Frankie had performed a hundred times over the years with a variety of friends and comrades – and yet what Rory had with Tom wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever experienced before. Which made little sense.

Rory felt like saying to Tom, Meet me one afternoon or evening, devote hours to doing it properly, have sex with me, _know_ me. Get naked with me, Tom.

Times like this, when the long day eased by in mundane work and his mind was free to ramble, Rory would imagine Tom patiently, thoroughly, generously making love to Sheila. Well, he’d try to imagine it, for Rory hadn’t the experience necessary to fill in the details. And he’d silently plead, Do that to me, I’ll pay for a hotel room. Ah, of course I can afford it, Tom, they pay me danger money on that building site…

But Rory never said any of it, and he never asked. He never asked.

Today, after spending the morning painting and thinking of Tom, Rory was so damned hot-and-hard for it that he beckoned Sean inside the boat’s wheel-house and said, ‘Help me out here…’

‘Sure,’ the fellow softly said.

It was fine, Frankie jerking off with his friend; Sean was an appealing sort, with his blond curls and his pink-daubed face and his lively generosity. The two of them exchanged a few simple kisses while they were doing it, which was pleasant. But Rory wished he were with Tom. This situation was really becoming pathetically stupid.

‘You got someone?’ Sean asked afterwards, gazing tactfully out to sea.

They were sharing a cigarette there, propped lazily against the wheel and the disemboweled instrument panel. Eventually Rory replied, ‘Aye.’ He asked, ‘And you?’

‘Kind of.’ Sean looked over at him, and shrugged. ‘There’s this girl. I like her. But…’ The look crumpled into wry confusion. ‘I don’t know what she wants half the time. Seems like Americans speak a different version of English than the Irish do.’

Rory considered this for a moment, and then gave his advice. ‘I reckon maybe she wants you.’

‘Aye, you reckon?’

‘Can’t hurt to ask.’

Sean shrugged again, but he was listening. ‘Aye,’ he eventually said. And then, very directly, he asked, ‘What about you? Are you getting any with yours?’

That earned Sean an impatient (though, to be fair, undeserved) grimace, and then it was Rory’s turn to gaze out to sea. ‘There’s a man. We just do this sort of thing, that’s all.’

‘But you like him?’

Rory left a long pause; however, Sean remained silent, apparently too persistent to let the subject drop. At last Rory admitted, ‘Aye, I like him.’ Then he cleared his throat and asked in an embarrassed whisper, ‘Did you ever go down on a guy?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

Sean suddenly broke into a grin so broad that Rory couldn’t help but catch the beams in the corner of his eye. ‘You know, Frankie,’ Sean leaned close to murmur, ‘you could practice on me if you like…’

‘In your dreams,’ Rory retorted.

‘Aye, maybe.’

They both subsided again, though Rory sensed the raw honesty of the conversation had almost reached its limits. Perhaps there was time for one last confession. ‘Sean. It’s complicated. He’s married, he must be about as happily married as they come.’

‘Ah, Frankie,’ his friend said with a wry laugh, ‘you have the Devil’s own luck in love.’

‘The luck of the Irish!’ Rory protested – and he jumped his friend, good-naturedly pummeled him. ‘Anyway, who said it’s love?’ he demanded.

Sean just laughed again, and submitted to the punishment of a wrestle, managing to get through Rory’s defenses to tickle him every now and then. It was fun, it was good. It was what boys did.

There was a momentary return of the seriousness, though, as they parted that afternoon. ‘Frankie the Angel,’ Sean murmured to him. ‘Mind how you go, won’t you?’

Rory lifted a hand to Sean’s face, gently brushed at a last remnant of pink paint just below the fellow’s earlobe. (Tom had taught Rory just how sensitive that place could be.) ‘Aye,’ he whispered in reply.

♦

‘You never told me what the men did today,’ Rory said in his enchanting lilt.

Tom locked the front door behind him, and offered his companion a smile. ‘No, I didn’t. I can tell you what this man feels like doing tonight, however.’

‘Aye,’ was the amused murmur as Rory turned away, heading for the hallway and the door to the basement. ‘I can guess…’

The house was quiet around them. Tom walked into the front room to check the windows. Which was when he heard Annie’s voice saying, ‘Hello, Rory.’

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ came the gentle reply. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

‘I was waiting for you to come tuck me in.’

Tom rounded the corner to find Annie sitting halfway up the first flight of stairs, in her pajamas and less than half awake, with her plush stuffed duck cuddled in her lap. ‘I already tucked you in,’ Tom reminded her, ‘and you fell asleep.’

‘But then I woke up,’ she replied with unarguable logic, ‘and I was waiting for Rory.’

Casting a mock-grimace at Rory, who was standing at the foot of the stairs watching all this, Tom brushed past him. ‘I’ll put you to bed, honey.’

‘I want Rory!’

‘You’ll have to make do with your old Dad,’ Tom insisted.

‘No!’

‘It’s all right,’ Rory softly interrupted, ‘I’ll tuck her in.’

The smile that broke across his daughter’s face was too happy to resist. Tom stepped back, and let the younger man scoop Annie up into his arms. The girl began a whispered conversation with Rory as he stepped across the landing, began climbing up the next flight and out of Tom’s line of sight; it was as if the two of them were in a world of their own. Well, five-year-old Annie was a good judge of character, so her father felt his own preferences were quite vindicated by hers…

Tom quietly finished locking up, and then headed down to the basement. Figuring Rory might be a while getting Annie settled again, Tom stretched out on the narrow bed, taking the risk that he might doze off, welcoming the chance to relax.

There had been no bolt of lightning, the sky had yet to fall. Tom didn’t feel guilty about this affair with Rory – in fact, he almost felt guilty over his lack of guilt, if that made a half-assed kind of sense. Instead, Tom O’Meara felt blessed with an abundance of riches, his life full and textured and delightful.

After that first urgent and rather one-sided encounter, Tom had been bold enough to reach for Rory, to take another man’s manhood into his hands. Sometimes they’d pleasure each other at the same time, kissing, and all was sweet crazy confusion. On other occasions they’d taken turns, concentrating first on Tom and then on Rory.

Earlier that week, Rory (without any warning) had fallen to his knees and taken Tom’s cock into his mouth. It was obvious the younger man was inexperienced, but that only added to the charm of his enthusiasm. Tom hadn’t had the chance to overcome his reluctance at returning the favor, for Rory had brought himself off with one hand while doing the deed…

Sheila had once had an affair. Tom had forgiven and forgotten the matter, but under the circumstances perhaps it wasn’t so odd that he mused over it all again. It was a long time ago now, while they were engaged; Sheila had been rebellious, uncertain of what she was getting herself into, afraid of what she might lose in a marriage. Which had just made Tom want her all the more, actually: a fact which none of his male acquaintances had understood. They found it as difficult to understand that Tom had never considered he had the right or even an excuse to level the score. No, this relationship with Rory was something that must be judged on its own merits.

Perhaps Tom drifted off to sleep for a moment, because he suddenly became aware that Rory was standing there in the shadows at the foot of the stairs; standing there staring at him. Perhaps Rory hadn’t expected Tom to wait down here for him. Or perhaps Rory was amazed to discover Tom lying on his bed: they’d only ever used the wall until now, which was really horribly uncivilized now that Tom thought about it. ‘Come here,’ Tom said gruffly.

Rory took a step forward, and his wary expression was revealed by the dim reach of the lamplight.

‘Come here,’ Tom repeated, and lifted his arms to welcome the man.

A moment before Rory was convinced – and then he reached the bed in two long strides, and was lying beside Tom, face-down and body half-overlapping body. Tom wrapped Rory up, let the younger man bury his head against Tom’s throat and shoulder once more. There was something desperate in Rory’s hard embrace, something so full of need for this simple intimacy. Tom spent a minute or three soothing him, holding him, nothing more.

It seemed unlikely now that Tom and Rory would have sex tonight; perhaps Annie had reminded them both of Tom’s other commitments, or maybe Rory was happy enough for this… well, Sheila would call it a cuddle.

Tom smiled; he should probably be glad for the less strenuous demands on him. Sex two or three times a week with Rory, and once or twice with Sheila, was… inevitably going to take its toll. And, oh God, he was drinking way too much Guinness… ‘What do you want with me?’ Tom murmured. ‘I’m an old man.’

Rory’s shoulders shook in a silent chuckle. After a while he whispered, ‘Aye. But you’re a _handsome_ old man.’

‘And you?’ Tom lifted a hand to tumble those silky blond locks. ‘You’re only, what, thirty-three? Thirty-four?’

‘I’m twenty-eight, Tom,’ the man quietly replied.

A moment stretched. Rory pulled away, just far enough to lay his head on the pillow and consider Tom with a dry expression. Tom caressed that handsome face, gently traced a blemish that only accentuated the fineness of Rory’s cheekbones.

Rory echoed, ‘What do you want with me? I’m scarred. I’m worn. I don’t even look my age.’

‘You’ve had a hard life. But there’s not a person in this house,’ Tom declared, ‘who doesn’t think you’re beautiful. Who doesn’t dub you Saint Rory.’ There, the truth was out now, for better or for worse. Despite an attack of bashfulness he continued, ‘My family are all in love with you. The girls want to marry you.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Why should I be any different?’

The young man didn’t seem to know what to do with these compliments; he lay there in his needy clumsy embrace of Tom, staring at him from just far enough away that their eyes weren’t crossing. Flabbergasted by flattery.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Tom said again, for what it was worth.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Rory blurted out. ‘I’ve had a strange kind of life. A strange kind of half-life. If this was an American story with a happy ending… I was thinking that I can’t tell any more if I’d have turned out this way.’ And to make his meaning clearer, Rory reached a hand to unerringly find and grasp Tom’s half-hearted cock through his jeans and shirt-tails and shorts. ‘I can’t tell.’

Ah, time to satisfy his curiosity, if he could. ‘You’ve done this before, then?’ Tom asked lightly. ‘With men.’

Rory grimaced, bothered over the question; finally replied, ‘With friends. Always quick and dirty, you know? Some would and some wouldn’t, and that was all right. No one ever made a big deal out of it.’

Tom ran his hand over the man’s hair again, trying to soften the interrogation. ‘And women? Didn’t you ever want a family of your own?’

‘In _Belfast_?’ It seemed Rory had never considered this, or at least not for a long while. He considered it now. ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. ‘But perhaps you can now you’re here in America? You’d make a good father.’

‘No,’ Rory repeated, pulling the punch a little by earnestly meeting Tom’s gaze. He whispered, ‘But, what I was thinking –’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I haven’t had anything like this before. You know?’

Tom shook his head, unable to leap to any useful conclusions relating to this topic.

Rory frowned impatience at Tom for making him spell it out, but went ahead anyway. ‘I haven’t had anyone caring for me. I haven’t had romance before.’

That hit home, and left a delightful ache behind. Tom found himself smiling with pleasure, hands fumbling gentle on the beauty of this man, even as Tom began apologizing: ‘I’m sorry that it can’t be more than this –’

‘Hush,’ Rory chided him. ‘It’s fine the way it is. It’s perfect. And you’ve made me think, well, maybe this _is_ how I would have turned out.’

Flabbergasted by flattery; Tom’s turn to be hit out of the ballpark. Amazing to be told he’d had an influence on this young man, that he’d helped Rory reach for self-knowledge. Tom couldn’t help but keep smiling, though he felt foolish as hell.

There was nothing else to say. Soon (because Tom was forever aware he shouldn’t spend too long down here for fear of Sheila becoming suspicious or resentful), he offered a silent farewell through an intensification of their hug, and then Tom hauled himself regretfully away from Rory’s warmth. Those blue eyes caught the lamplight and glittered at Tom as he climbed the stairs, watching what he was leaving rather than where he was going…

And then the basement door was closed behind him, and Tom was making his way up to the second floor. He checked in on Annie, who appeared to be deep in a happy dream, and then tiptoed into his bedroom, quietly undressing as soon as he was over the threshold.

Sheila, who was normally sound asleep by now, turned a smile on him, remaining safely snuggled up under the quilts. ‘What do you two get up to down there?’ she asked, her tone fondly teasing. It was obvious that she felt no fear of his answer.

‘Oh, men’s stuff,’ Tom mumbled, ‘you know.’

‘No…’

‘We… talk.’

‘You do?’ The surprise was genuine, even though overplayed. ‘Since when did men talk?’

Tom’s brows rose; he was as startled as she was, that this happened to be the truth. ‘ _We_ do. We talk.’

Sheila’s smile grew, and she settled again, ready for sleep. ‘He’s good for you,’ she commented. ‘You’re good for each other.’

And that was the truth, too; Tom was feeling _alive_. ‘Sheila, honey…’ he murmured, and (discarding the pajama top he’d been about to put on) he leaned down to nuzzle at her nape through the tumble of curly brown hair. ‘You’re not asleep yet, are you…?’

‘Almost.’ But when she rolled over into his arms, she was beaming with shy anticipation.

Tom O’Meara had always enjoyed making love to his wife, and that was never going to change.

♦

The next time Tom came down to the basement after they’d shared a Guinness at the pub, Rory lay there waiting on his bed. ‘Come here,’ Rory said gruffly, lifting his arms, just as Tom had done.

He clumsily arranged it so that he was lying on Tom again, already heavy and sated with intoxicating closeness. Stillness seemed a waste of this, so Rory kept moving against Tom, fraction by fraction, reveling in dull wonderful all-over sensation. Aware of his breath slightly panting, Rory decided not to impose silence on himself.

Tom, bless him, offered something more with a lift of his brow and a hand on the button of Rory’s jeans; but the younger man was really most interested in this embrace, unique in his poor experience. ‘I’ll do myself after,’ Rory mumbled – and Tom’s eyes sparked at the idea. Rory smiled. ‘Will you think of me?’

‘Aye,’ Tom whispered, lips curling with this rare Irishism. ‘I will.’

It was only later (after Tom had coaxed him over and under) when Tom was lying on top, embracing him, that Rory realized he should have taken some of his own weight up onto elbows and knees. So many things he’d have had to learn, to treat this man as he deserved to be treated; time was beginning to run out, though, and one day soon Rory would need to leave Tom behind, Frankie would need to return to Belfast.

Instead of Tom’s considerateness, Rory abruptly wanted Tom’s smothering heaviness on him, bearing him down into the mattress. He let out a fraught moan, and Tom clutched him up, kissed him. It would do; it would surely do.

♦

The neighborhood idiots down the pub were telling Irish jokes again (after a respite of some weeks), trying to needle Rory Devaney, who was still the new boy despite having lived here for months now. Tom rolled his eyes, wondering how his acquaintances could possibly have missed the cold glint behind Rory’s unamused facade. He’d never seen Rory provoked into anger, but Tom suspected he didn’t really want to, either – or, at least, he didn’t want to be on the wrong end of it.

‘So, this traveler says to Paddy,’ the joke began, ‘How do you get to Killaloe?’

‘Ah, now, Paddy replies, I wouldn’t be starting from here…’

Tom gaped. That had been Rory delivering the punch line, and in his broadest Belfast accent, too.

Smiling slyly, the young man announced, ‘The _Irish Times_ published its twenty-thousand-pound prize competition crossword today. And for those who don’t wish to take part, they printed the answers on page nine.’

There was laughter all round, even from Tom once he’d gotten over the shock of it. Rory had certainly loosened up a little; Tom could barely remember the wary and reserved man who’d arrived at the O’Meara home one snowy night in February…

Afterwards, in the basement, Tom contrasted the faded memory of that hard-bitten stranger with the man now moving under Tom’s hands. It was as if Rory had formerly been starved of intimacy. The directness of their encounters, the mutual masturbation, had segued into explorations of comfort, expressions of caring… Right now, for example, Tom had both hands inside Rory’s jeans, palms and fingers discovering the contours of the man’s narrow hips, grasping and caressing and eroticizing. Rory was wallowing in the simple sensation, spell-bound by this luxury, slumped back against the wall, unwilling to be distracted even by Tom’s kisses.

It bemused Tom, and saddened him – and pleased him, too, in a profound kind of way – that he should be the first to bring this blessing to Rory’s life.

Everything was perfect in his world, Tom reflected late that night as he climbed the stairs up to Sheila and bed, hands curled in a memory of Rory’s sharp hipbones. Everything was perfect.

‘What do you have planned for this weekend?’ Sheila asked over dinner the following night; it was a Thursday.

Tom sorted through his faulty memory, and shook his head apologetically; if he’d promised to do something, he’d forgotten. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

Sheila narrowed her eyes, though she was smiling wryly, teasing him. Rory and the girls were all watching keenly… His wife asked, ‘What have you got planned for _next_ weekend?’

‘Easter,’ Tom blurted out more by instinct than rational thought, ‘and Morgan’s confirmation.’

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as Tom passed that little test. Imagine that, Tom reflected: Morgan’s confirmation already. His thirteen-year-old daughter was growing up fast. He offered her an encouraging smile.

‘I’ve had a busy week,’ Sheila was continuing as she passed the bowl of mashed potatoes round one last time (beginning with Rory because he was still kind of a guest). ‘We had three more houses go on the market just this afternoon, and I’ll have to work Saturday morning at least, though I’ve asked to have Monday off.’ The life of a real estate agent, even in this old family neighborhood, could be hectic. ‘I need to finish sewing the new dresses for Morgan and Annie; then there’s all the shopping and the cooking for the party…’

‘Just tell me what I can do,’ Tom said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’

Sheila smiled happily at him, as if struck anew by the miracle of having a helpful husband. To Tom’s confusion, she commented inconsequentially, ‘I was thinking that you haven’t been up to the cabin for a fishing weekend in a long while.’

Tom groaned theatrically. ‘Well, I’m not taking Eddie again. It’s bad enough listening to him complain all day at work – you should hear him when he’s not in reach of a toilet that flushes!’ Annie was kind enough to giggle at Eddie’s fastidiousness and Tom’s outrage; so Tom mussed her hair up, liking to see and feel all those long red curls tumbling through his fingers. She was going to grow too old for that soon…

‘You could take Rory,’ Sheila suggested.

Oh, thought Tom.

‘It’s not that I’m trying to get rid of you,’ Sheila was continuing, ‘but I could do with two less things to worry about this weekend. And I know you love it up there,’ she said, beginning to sound a bit puzzled. Usually it was Tom pleading with Sheila. ‘Maybe Rory will love it, too.’

Rory was sitting there beside Sheila, smiling enough to demonstrate his willingness, but leaving it up to Tom to decide. Silence. One by one Sheila and the girls all began staring at Tom. Usually he’d have been metaphorically packing his gear by now. But he was floundering. Because it was slowly occurring to him with all the force of a tidal wave that his wife was inviting him to spend the weekend alone with Rory in a place with not one but two double beds. Rory, thank God, had dropped his gaze tactfully to the tablecloth.

‘What do you think?’ Tom asked him, prevaricating. The point wasn’t that there were two beds; the point was they were both doubles. ‘My father’s old cabin, upstate New York. The cabin’s not much, but the countryside is beautiful.’ And Tom was fairly sure only one of the beds would get used. ‘He’d go up there to fish in the river,’ Tom added weakly.

‘Aye,’ said Rory at last, ‘I’d like that. If you’re sure,’ he politely checked with Sheila, ‘that we’d be more hindrance than help this weekend?’

‘I’m sure,’ she said fondly, no doubt thinking she was doing everyone a favor, and having no suspicion of just how good a favor she was doing Tom.

Though… was it actually a _good_ thing? Tom spent most of the evening pottering around the house, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, pondering the notion.

Everyone else was busy with their own lives. Rory read stories to Annie until Sheila took pity on him (Annie always became relentlessly entranced by that Irish lilt); and then the young man slipped down to the basement for an evening alone. Morgan was doing her homework under the headphones; Sheila was sewing; Bridget was on the phone to her girlfriends. Tom felt at a bit of a loose end, unable to settle on the sofa as he usually did when he had a moment to himself, with a book or a television program.

Taking the next step with Rory… Tom was still no clearer as to what that might involve. Last time he’d expected something involving a bed and taking their clothes off; and instead Rory had pushed him up against the basement wall and plunged a hand down Tom’s jeans. The simple intimacies they’d shared since then were food for Tom’s imagination – but what would he actually be expected to do with a naked man in a double bed? Something a little more sophisticated than they’d been in the habit of, surely…

Tom found himself in Bridget’s room, scanning the posters she had tacked to every available vertical surface. They were all of boys; few of them were even approaching Rory’s age. Tom stared at them with fresh eyes, wondering what it would be like to make love to a male body: an undeniably attractive body, but dauntingly male; as familiar as his own masculinity, but foreign nevertheless.

Bridget eventually slammed the receiver down with an angry growl. ‘Did you want this?’ she demanded, holding the phone out to Tom. Why else would her father be hanging around?

‘No, thanks,’ he absently replied. ‘These boys,’ Tom said: ‘what is it you like about them exactly?’

‘What!?’

‘Is it their faces?’ There was no immediately obvious common factor that Tom could discern, other than the general bland handsomeness of youth. Some were blond, some dark, two were of Asian heritage. ‘Is it who they are? Or what they do…?’

She was looking around at them all again, perhaps trying to work it out for herself. ‘Well, they’re kind of cute,’ she said.

‘Cute.’ The word didn’t carry enough detail for him in this context; didn’t cute bring with it connotations of kittens? ‘What about their bodies? Is it their chests? Or… Well, on the radio the other day, they had the results of some survey which said men mostly liked women’s breasts more than any other feature, and women mostly liked men’s butts. Is that true?’

Bridget was gaping at him.

‘Which would be the cutest butt here? What is it that you like about them? Has to be slim, I suppose, though you’d want some shape, some curve at least…’

‘What on earth are you talking about!’ She sounded horrified, scandalized. A sixteen-year-old horrified at her father asking her about men’s butts. That was probably quite a reasonable reaction now that Tom thought about it.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and retreated in good order.

However, Tom wasn’t so quick that he didn’t miss Bridget’s fraught and frustrated comment: ‘This family is so _weird_ …! I _must_ have been adopted.’

As things turned out, it seemed Tom risked traumatizing his eldest daughter for nothing. He and Rory drove up to the cabin on Friday evening after a quick dinner at home, and got there quite late, the city traffic having slowed them down. Tom quickly showed Rory around the place (Rory seemed unfazed by the outdoor conveniences), and they got a fire started.

Rory had already assessed the bed situation. ‘I’ll take this one,’ the young man said, indicating the bed in the corner of the main room. ‘You take the bedroom, that’s only fair.’

Tom stared at him, dumbstruck. Surely it wasn’t so strange for Tom to expect them to sleep together…? He’d been assuming Rory would want that, too.

‘We’re both tired, Tom,’ Rory murmured, gentle and firm. ‘Let’s get a good night’s sleep.’

After a silence dragged by during which Rory wouldn’t meet the older man’s gaze, Tom resentfully gave in and stalked off to sleep alone. What could he say, after all?

♦

Despite Rory’s stated intentions, he lay awake for long dark hours thinking through this stupid situation. Tom in his innocence had no ghosts haunting him, and Rory was quite determined not to give him any, not if he could possibly help it.

The trouble was that Tom seemed to have a fairly simplistic notion of how his relations with Rory could work – and Rory certainly didn’t want Tom to quit fooling himself. If they could sustain their existing understanding until Frankie left for Belfast (and it wouldn’t be long now, thank God), then all would be well. Or as well as it could be. But if it got complicated, if Sheila found out and Tom died a little from the guilt of hurting her, then Rory would lose everything.

So he’d decided it was best not to talk about any of it, or to challenge Tom; it was best just to go along with what Tom wanted, agree to this fishing trip, and try to keep the whole thing in check somehow.

At this late stage all Frankie wanted was for as little to go wrong as possible. His cover depended on continuing to live with the O’Meara family; his mission depended on him maintaining his cover; he couldn’t afford too many complications. He didn’t want Tom to die a little. So even though this was his best chance for Tom to make love to him, Rory still didn’t ask.

He didn’t ask. Even though he lay there that night, feeling nothing but yearning, wanting simply to creep in there and climb into Tom’s bed and…

He didn’t ask, and he tried not to think about it. The efficient thing to do would be sleep… Rory didn’t dare even move.

And the next morning Tom didn’t say more than five words to him: ‘Coming down to the river?’ They’d washed and dressed and breakfasted in deadly silence. Now Tom was standing there in worn old clothes, carrying fishing rods and tackle, looking at him coldly. ‘Coming down to the river?’

‘Aye.’

It was indeed beautiful here. Rory had really only seen New York City since he’d arrived in America; its riches and its poverty, its dark and light places, all of which were freedom compared to Belfast. And Rory had hardly given a thought to what lay beyond. Here were green grasses, not emerald, but long and fine; spring-fresh leaves on the trees, and blossom on some, too. The river near the cabin was wide and strong, though calm on the surface, reflecting the sky; there were a few wisps of white cloud, which only intensified the blue.

Tom settled in a certain place on the riverbank under a tree, as if he’d been coming here since he was a lad; and that was no doubt the case. Rory sat in the grass, leaning his back against the tree-trunk. Busy with his rods and tackle, Tom seemed to be in a world of his own. As he sorted through all his odds and ends, though, something occurred to him. ‘I only brought one chair.’

Rory squinted up at him against the brightness of the sun, and let out a laugh at the chagrined expression. Tom was pissed with him, and yet the man still worried about being the perfect host. ‘I’m fine, Tom,’ Rory said. He had to laugh at Tom’s silly little foldaway canvas stool, too: Rory was far better off with the tree and the solid ground. ‘I’m fine, I promise you.’

‘I brought you a rod.’

Such an earnest offer; pity to turn it down. ‘No, but I thank you for the thought.’ Tilting his head so that the sun wasn’t full in his eyes, Rory watched the fellow get himself set up. Strictly amateur, obviously; strictly here for the enjoyment of this beautiful place. And who could blame him? Rory offered, ‘My Da was a fisherman.’

Tom nodded encouragement, apparently willing to hear more.

But Rory wasn’t ready to go where that story led, not with Tom, not yet. Instead, after a time, Rory murmured, ‘It’s fine the way it is, Tom.’

Silence stretched, but a different silence now, not cold like it had been. Peaceful. The bountiful peace of this place seeped through them both, leaving them quiet and restful. Golden-yellow sunlight soaked into Rory where he sat comfortable and content.

A decent cast into the smooth-flowing water; then Tom set the rod aside and just sat there contemplating his own thoughts.

It seemed a long while before Tom spoke, though judging by the slow-moving sun it wouldn’t have been more than half an hour. ‘I didn’t tell you what the men did,’ he softly said.

Rory considered this. To be honest, he was half-asleep, letting his guard slip a little in this haven, tired from the troubled night before, and warmed through now. At last Rory replied, ‘Tell me.’

‘Men are victims, too, you know,’ Tom said in a measured pensive voice. ‘Women are mostly the victims of rapes and murders.’ The words drifted by, their harsh truths unable to harm anyone just for the moment. ‘But men hurt and cripple and kill men.’ Within this space it was as if these ideas could be examined clearly, and seen for exactly what they were. ‘Men die in car wrecks, men suicide. Men rape men, and other men make it virtually impossible for the victims to report the crimes.’ And then Tom asked, ‘What is it with us?’

_What is it with us?_ Rory shifted against the reassuring living-wood, sagged a little –

– and the next thing he knew, he was into the dream. The dream so familiar now it had lost all its power to frighten him. Frankie was running, running with his comrades through the soft dark Irish night; Desmond was beside him, and Sean, and Martin, Brendan, Michael, all the rest of them, even John and Patrick. (But not his Da. His Da was in a better place than this.) There were soldiers ahead, English soldiers, the enemy running away; and Frankie was chasing after them with his friends. Up the rolling hills and down, feet light on the grass, legs striding long and tireless. But there were soldiers behind them, too, chasing, forever chasing. And Frankie was both the pursuer and the pursued, the hunted and the hunter. Knowing that it was a dream he simply ran, enjoying the effortless speed for its own sake; and he laughed with his mates, meeting their bright direct gazes, knowing half of them or more were dead now. Poor Dessie with his fresh bullet holes, as joyous as the rest of their unit… Martin sounded a cry, a battle-call, lifting his rifle, yelling like a banshee –

– Frankie woke with a start, reaching for his own rifle, wanting only to follow the man, his unit leader.

‘Rory.’

The gun wasn’t there, the dream had gone; the very air and light were wrong, the colors weren’t right.

‘Rory!’

_Who the fuck’s Rory?_ And then he remembered.

Tom O’Meara was crouched beside him, concerned. Staring at him. Beginning to draw back a little in consternation.

Frankie shut his eyes, and let the cold banshee cry dwindle away within him. A moment later Rory met Tom’s gaze.

‘Bad dream?’ Tom murmured, settling again, perhaps finding it easier to forget what he’d just seen of Frankie McGuire.

‘Aye.’ They looked steadily at each other, closer together than they had been for days. After a while Tom patted Rory’s hand in reassurance. He was about to stand, so Rory said, ‘You were telling me that I hurt you.’

‘Was I?’ The voice distant, though Tom was near, very near.

‘But we’re not hidden away down the basement now.’

‘No, we’re not.’ And Tom said, ‘I want to make love with you.’

‘I never asked for that, Tom.’

‘ _I’m_ asking.’

Rory smiled at him, happy just for having this much. He confessed, ‘It’s not that I don’t want that, too.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘That I want too much. And it’s not mine for the taking. You know that,’ Rory quietly reminded him. Tom looked crestfallen. ‘So, if we do this,’ Rory continued, his smile inadvertently growing as Tom brightened again, ‘we leave it here behind us when we go. We don’t take this back home with us. All right?’

‘Yes,’ Tom said gruffly, and then he lifted his hands to Rory’s face.

Fingertips tenderly tracing the scars and the structure of him, delving around to run through his hair and cup his nape; Tom drew Rory up for a kiss, there in the sunlight. Rory hadn’t had anything this sweet and simple since childhood. Long minutes wandered by as the breeze played with the grasses, and their mouths fit together and worked together in a hundred different ways and there was still more to explore…

A splash, and the high-pitched whine of the reel. Rory surfaced, stared at the fishing rod alternately bent-taut and loose-quivering as the line sped and slackened. ‘Begorah!’ Rory declared in his best over-the-top Irish. ‘You’ve gone and caught yourself a fish!’

Tom’s jaw had dropped: he seemed even more surprised than Rory… It was just as well Tom had an actual fisherman on hand to help him land the little bugger.

♦

He and Rory let the fish go, after marveling over it and wishing in vain for a camera. Sheila would never believe them, of course, and the more Tom protested the truth of it (calling on Rory, who’d good-naturedly back him up) the louder Sheila would laugh… Tom smiled in anticipation of amusing his wife.

Meanwhile, Tom had Rory to concern himself with. They took their time, lazing the morning away by the river, and then sitting for a while over lunch back at the cabin, and brewing a pot of coffee. Eventually, though, Tom stood and took Rory by the hand, and led the young man into the bedroom where Tom had slept alone last night.

Undressing Rory piece by piece, uncovering his fine strengths, pressing kisses to every vulnerability; Tom found himself approaching the simple task with reverence. Rory quaked under his hands, as if it were all he could do to stand still for this. When the man was naked, Tom stepped back and cast an admiring eye over him: scars and smooth planes, weathered colors contrasting with paleness; a tall and elegant arrangement of muscle and bone. With pride, Tom decided that his lover was far more attractive than any of the boys on Bridget’s wall.

Taking pity on him, Tom said, ‘Go on, lie down.’ And while Rory was pulling back the blankets and top-sheet, Tom quickly discarded his own clothing. He knew he was in pretty good shape for an old guy, but there was no point in inviting any kind of comparison between them. Rory was… beautiful.

Tom lay down with him, took Rory into his arms, spent a lovely long while simply ensuring that they both enjoyed the feel of one naked masculine body against another. It was better than Tom had dared to hope, and easier, and even more exciting…

Rory’s own excitement was betrayed in all kinds of ways, from the obvious to the subtle (pleasure filtered down the length of him with a silent _oh_ every time Tom did something right). Nevertheless, Rory kept closing his eyes against the sight of Tom, scrunching his face up, as if (even though he was lying there soaking this luxury up) Rory mostly wanted this to be over and done with. The poor man, Tom reflected: having known so little love in his life, Rory found it difficult to accept any now. Tom almost wished he were free of other commitments, so he could give Rory more of himself, slowly gently overwhelm him with caring. Heal him. It seemed very clear right now that even a man could do that; could (what was it called?) yes, a man could _nurture_ his friend. His lover.

They had all this afternoon and evening, Tom thought, even as he found the bravery necessary to shift down on all fours and take Rory’s manhood into his mouth. They had the night and the morning, and they’d already caught a fish so there’d be no further distractions. Sharp and slightly bitter taste of another man’s seed, surprising, foreign; but perhaps it was something he could get used to (Tom hadn’t enjoyed going down on Sheila the first time, either, but that had soon changed). Rory was moaning as if lost to all reason; a wonderfully flattering response. Well, Tom could work with this, Tom could maybe accomplish a little healing in twenty-four hours.

Perhaps he could even provoke Rory into seizing the active role in this… Tom considered the idea as Rory’s long fine fingers clutched bruisingly at Tom’s shoulders. _Am I that game?_ Tom wondered. And he soon answered himself: _Yes_. _Oh, yes_.

♦

Tom O’Meara making love to him: it was the most frightening thing Frankie McGuire had faced in years. Something inside of him was screaming a warning: If you don’t get back to Belfast soon, you’ll never find your way; Rory Devaney will have sapped all your courage.

Aye, if he didn’t return soon, the tide would go out and leave him behind, stranded. And Frankie would die a little. Frankie would die.

‘You are so beautiful,’ Tom was murmuring late that night, gazing at Rory in the dim light of the old paraffin lamp. They were lying on Tom’s bed, tired from the indulgence of sex but unable to let each other go just yet.

‘I’m sure I don’t know why you keep saying so,’ Rory replied.

Tom smiled his skepticism. ‘Come on, everyone who sees you –’ And then it seemed to dawn on the man that Rory was utterly unused to such compliments. His face fell; Tom was feeling the hurt of this lack more than Rory himself did. ‘I can’t believe no one’s ever told you before…’ the older man protested. ‘That’s not right.’

Rory thought for a moment; and remembered Sean calling him Frankie the Angel, gazing up at him fondly, after being happy to oblige Frankie’s hunger. Was that something close to what Tom meant? Ah, but beauty had no place in Frankie’s life. Sean had simply been concerned for his friend, his comrade.

‘Don’t you believe me?’ Tom asked.

Rory allowed, ‘I believe _you_ think I’m beautiful.’

‘Well… don’t you see the way all three of my daughters look at you?’

‘Aye. They’re kind-hearted. Tom, you’re being very kind to this scarred worn old creature.’

The man shook his head, apparently unable to comprehend that Rory simply didn’t think of himself in that way.

There was plenty of room for decency and beauty in America, Rory reflected; but none in Belfast. Frankie couldn’t take this back with him; in fact, Frankie would need to leave pretty much all of Rory Devaney behind…

‘ _I_ think you’re beautiful,’ Tom insisted gruffly, a tad grumpy because he hadn’t managed to convince Rory. ‘Come here.’

It seemed that Tom wanted to be made love to; the man was lifting his arms around Rory’s shoulders, encouraging the younger man to lie on top of him; a few kisses and Tom was heedlessly making needy whimpering noises, fretting for sensation that he couldn’t articulate a request for. Rory was shifting over him, moving the mystery of skin against skin, remembering to keep the bulk of his weight off the man below him.

He didn’t know whether it was Tom’s idea, or his own, or maybe they were both inspired by the moment: Rory ended up with his legs wide, straddled either side of Tom’s, and thrusting himself down between Tom’s tightly-held-together thighs. It was the closest Rory had ever been to actually fucking someone. Oh, he tried to make it last, this lovely intense sensation of finding a pressured haven for his cock, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t. His discipline was completely shot to pieces.

‘And you?’ Rory asked, his breath panting; lying sprawled there on Tom afterwards, not caring anymore if he crushed the guy.

‘No, I can’t. You know, I’ll never keep up with you; I’m an old man, have mercy…’ Tom laughed happily, clutching Rory up in his arms. ‘You’re going to be the death of me.’

‘I trust not, Tom O’Meara,’ Frankie whispered.

Tom soon fell asleep, curled up around Rory – and Rory lay awake, taking note of all the bewitching details. He’d bunked down with his mates often enough, and there was trust and camaraderie involved in that; but of course it had never been quite like this, with the nakedness and the affection and the sore tingling aftermath of too much sex. And there had never been anyone in his life quite like Tom.

After a while, taking advantage of Tom shifting in his sleep, Rory slipped out of the man’s embrace and then sat there beside him, watching him. Looking at him properly, for perhaps the first time.

The men whom Frankie was most familiar with were all within five years or a decade of his own age; few of his comrades, and even fewer of his unit, seemed likely to reach their mid-forties. So Frankie really had no one to compare Tom to; but the older man seemed fit, healthy. Honestly made and well-nourished. Tom had seen more years than Frankie, but rather less mileage; he was mostly betrayed by his skin, which wasn’t as firm or supple as the younger man’s, though it was still attractive. The man wasn’t much marred; there were a few scars, and Rory had noticed an occasional tendency towards a limp, but there were no signs of anything that had greatly harmed Tom.

As Rory had once told him, Tom was handsome – though that didn’t much matter to Rory, one way or the other. Sure, Tom’s face was pleasing to regard, with his brown hair and clear blue eyes. But the frightening seductive openness of Tom’s expression carried more significance, his willingness to accept and be affected by whatever Rory did or said. His uncompromising conviction one moment and his earnest fumbling the next.

Tom O’Meara was strong, and well-fashioned; a man who could love, a man to be reckoned with…

Rory really must stop this indulgence. Frankie couldn’t afford it.

Pulling back, Frankie lay on the bed without touching his lover, pushing the covers away so that the cool air began to bite at him. And staring up into the darkness, Frankie forced himself to think of all the awful things. Leaving Desmond behind, that had been awful. Poor Dessie with an English bullet in him, dying already, so hurt he could barely move; saying _Go!_ to Frankie, because if Frankie didn’t get out of there right away the enemy would catch up with him, too. As he ran through a hidden maze of undergrowth and brick walls, Frankie had heard one last shot ring out – and he’d been glad that the bastards had finished it. And it was _awful_ that Frankie should find anything to be glad about in Dessie being killed…

There was nothing to be glad about with Patrick. The poor sod had been captured and tortured, and he couldn’t walk afterwards because he had precious little skin left on the soles of his feet. Even so, Patrick found the physical pain easier to live with than the memory that he’d told the bastards everything he knew. Martin judged it safer to leave Patrick out of any plans after that: the man had been broken, and the English would take advantage if they could. Frankie had still gone to visit with him, though, maintaining the friendship. That was only fair.

What wasn’t fair was the night Patrick had practically begged Frankie to end it for him. Patrick couldn’t bear the pain any more, the pain and the uselessness and the humiliation; but Frankie couldn’t find quite enough strength within him to bestow that mercy. He wished he had, afterwards. Wrongly suspecting that some IRA offensive was looming, the enemy tried to take Patrick in again for questioning: but poor Patrick was too quick for them. He made it up to the roof of his house, and threw himself to the street below. It was only a two story drop; Patrick died screaming an hour later. But the English never learned anything more from him.

The soul-numbingly awful things in Belfast. In all good conscience, Frankie McGuire couldn’t stay here in America while knowing what was going on back home.

♦

It was Holy Thursday, and Tom was glum about only one thing: as a police officer he was expected to work the next day, despite it being Good Friday. Well, perhaps he could have asked for a day’s leave, but Tom was a man with a sense of duty – or an overactive duty gland, as Eddie once called it.

Everything else in Tom’s life was perfect. He was walking home with Rory after a shared Guinness at the pub. They hadn’t spent any time together since they’d gotten home from the fishing cabin on Sunday; Tom figured he really should consider himself glutted after having Rory to himself all weekend, and to ask for more right away would be greedy.

As for the younger man, he was even quieter than usual tonight, and seemed a little out of sorts. Maybe no one else would have quite picked it, however, because Rory wore his usual unimpeachably calm surface.

‘Are you working tomorrow?’ Tom asked him.

‘No. But I have errands to run.’

‘On Good Friday? There won’t be many places open.’

‘I know,’ Rory replied, tone a trifle short.

Tom just nodded, aware of his cop’s tendency to interrogate, forever seeking information. It wasn’t always the most appropriate way of interacting socially.

Perhaps rewarding him for letting the matter go, Rory offered, ‘Just a bit of tidying up and running around. Work stuff, nothing exciting.’

‘But the building site has shut down for the weekend?’

‘Aye.’

Silence returned. The two men reached home, went inside, and Rory headed down to the basement without a word. Tom locked up, and then followed Rory downstairs, wondering what would be waiting for him.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t what he got. Despite Rory having been on the edge of impatience all evening, Tom was met with gentleness. Despite the two of them having finally gotten used to making love properly in a bed, Tom was pushed up against the wall. How could he argue, though, with Rory’s soft thoughtful kisses, and those long fine fingers delving down between them to expertly tease Tom’s orgasm out of him…? It was sweet and simple and perfect.

And then Rory held him for a while, leaning his weight into Tom’s embrace, rubbing his face against Tom’s throat. ‘Beautiful,’ Tom murmured, figuring Rory might be persuaded in time, through sheer dogged persistence.

Rory smiled at him, and began slowly disengaging himself.

Not wanting to let him go, Tom asked, ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll do myself after. You go on up to your wife.’

‘What?’

‘Go on,’ Rory repeated. ‘My time’s up.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ Tom pleaded, hating to feel dismissed. ‘Come here… Or we’ll use the bed, that’s what it’s for, damn it. Come on, Rory.’

‘We agreed we wouldn’t bring that back here, Tom.’

‘You’re telling me we can’t _make love_ …?’

The young man was implacable. ‘You only ever gave me ten minutes. It won’t do to go changing anyone’s expectations now.’

Tom stared at him, seeing that Rory was deadly serious. ‘I think you must care about me,’ Tom said very slowly, even as his lover’s face hardened in denial. ‘You must care about me a lot.’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Rory retorted.

‘You want me to stay –’

‘No. No, I don’t.’ That was said in the firmest of tones.

‘But that’s what I mean – if this was an ideal world, you’d have me to yourself. You care about me, you want me to stay. But you’re generous enough to make me go –’

‘Stop it.’

Tom continued regardless. ‘– because you don’t want me to lose all the other good things I have. Then you lie down here alone –’

‘I said stop it, Tom.’

This time Tom paused, and he regarded the young man’s inscrutable face. A shell that hard could only be required in order to protect something of unimaginable value. ‘I think you must love me,’ Tom said. ‘I love you.’

The briefest crack showed, and there was a hint of the cold fury Tom had guessed was in there. ‘That’s enough,’ Rory said. ‘All right? You’ve had your revenge on me for throwing you out, Tom. Now, get upstairs to your wife.’

‘Revenge?’ Tom crumpled inside, dismayed with himself. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘You know you did, Tom.’

Well, OK, Tom admitted to himself, he had wanted to do that, just for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that was petty of me.’ And he tried to reveal his sorrow through his face, tried to convey his compassion to Rory, tried to envelop him in healing even with this distance between them. Voice raw, Tom said, ‘If I had any excuse, any justification for this affair, it’s that I tried to help you.’

‘Aye, and you’ve done that,’ Rory replied, softening almost imperceptibly. ‘You’re a good man, Tom. You’re not going to burn in Hell for this.’

‘I helped you?’

Rory nodded, and then smiled fondly; he couldn’t seem to help himself. ‘Don’t be talking about us in the past tense.’

‘No?’

‘No, it’s not over yet.’ Rory stepped closer, and the two men wrapped each other up in a hug. ‘You’ve helped me, Tom, and you’ve done nothing to trouble your heart about. All right?’

‘All right,’ Tom mumbled into the younger man’s shoulder. If he’d ever had any doubts about Rory Devaney’s wisdom, they’d been lost along the way somewhere.

‘Now, go on up to Sheila…’ Rory whispered. ‘And remember that everything’s fine just the way it is.’

Their hug deepened, and they even began gently swaying to and fro as if there were music. It was sweet. Tom refused to go until he was allowed to bestow a goodnight kiss on Rory’s delightful mouth; but, yes, he had to agree that everything was perfect.

Tom felt rather less sanguine on the morning of Morgan’s confirmation, however, when he was woken far too early by Annie playing trampoline on the bed. Sheila was nowhere within reach, and Bridget was yelling the house down because Morgan had been too long in the bathroom…

Rory attended the service with them, so much a part of the O’Meara family now that Tom didn’t even think twice about it until he realized that Rory wasn’t intending to take Holy Communion along with Tom, Sheila and Bridget. The young man sat there at the far end of the pew with Annie tucked under one arm, and when Tom lifted an inquiring brow Rory simply shook his head with a rueful smile. Tom nodded and shuffled along in the queue stretching up to the altar, a hand resting contentedly on Sheila’s waist. Such matters were best left to a man’s own conscience…

Which was when it belatedly dawned on Tom that he had no business receiving Holy Communion himself: he hadn’t confessed or repented of his adultery. He turned a chagrined face back to Rory, who betrayed a dash of amusement (in fact, it seemed Rory thought this situation was hilarious, though no one else would have been able to read his expression). Well, Tom figured, it was too late now; he would make an enormous fool of himself leaving his wife and daughter, and pushing back through the faithful to sit down in the pew beside Rory, clumsily declaring his sin for all the world to see.

Rory was kind enough to offer a grimace of sympathy, and then Tom faced front-and-center again. Reaching for stoicism to see him through, an undeserving Tom accepted the body and blood of Christ into himself, and offered up a silent prayer of apology. He made it back to the pew on trembling legs, but there were no lightning bolts.

After the service the O’Meara family held a rambunctious party back at the house. The first floor was crammed with loudly-celebrating people; never did the rooms feel so small as during one of these gatherings.

And there was Rory, quietly helping out in the background while not usurping the role of host; setting out chairs, fetching more plates, refilling drinks, sharing his good humor with anyone and everyone, cheering up Annie after she’d found herself beset by elderly relatives. Perhaps somewhat aware of how thrilled Morgan would be, Rory was the first to ask her to dance when the music started. Tom danced, too, giving himself over to the energy of an Irish jig, swapping partners with Rory, and generally having the time of his life.

There was Sheila, the most attractive woman in Staten Island, her good and generous nature evident on her lovely face, and her body (frankly) deliciously curvy. Tom held his wife close with an arm round her waist, feeling supremely content. Rory approached, virtually _shining_ with affection, and leaned close to say something. Unable to hear him over the racket, Tom shaped a hand around the man’s nape, drew him closer.

And Tom still didn’t hear what Rory said, for the move echoed that first kiss by the river, their first kiss in daylight. For a heady dangerous moment Tom felt so damnably comfortable with his life that he almost kissed Rory right there amidst all his friends and family and colleagues; half his parish around him and his wife under his arm… He had the crazy beautiful notion that they’d all accept it, that they’d all be as delighted with Rory as Tom himself was.

But Rory saved him, ducking his head and laughing at Tom’s brief folly. Oh, it had been close, though… so very close…

♦

Things began unravelling.

Frankie was, however, accustomed to plans not going smoothly. Fighting for the IRA generally consisted of one messy, scrappy affair after another; forever making do with brandishing pitchforks while the other side killed your family and friends and comrades with armalites; and the only answer was to throw yourself into it, heart and soul, persistence and ingenuity.

Martin had been captured and killed, back in Belfast: he was the one who’d conceived of sending Frankie and Sean to America to buy stinger missiles, so it had to be assumed that the enemy now knew everything. Martin: Frankie’s unit leader, and the closest thing he’d had to a hero. Poor bloody Martin.

The American Supreme Court Judge who’d sponsored Rory, and arranged the donated money to pay for the missiles, was terrified that his clandestine work for the IRA would now become common knowledge; he didn’t want anything more to do with the situation. The word from Belfast was that Frankie should sit quiet for a while, and not complete the purchase. Which didn’t make Billy Burke very happy: he’d shipped the missiles to America at his own expense, and wasn’t pleased when Frankie announced he couldn’t accept delivery just yet, and he couldn’t hand over the money, either.

Megan Doherty, the Irish girl who was nanny for the Judge’s child, offered to go back to Belfast for Frankie; it was too dangerous there now for him to risk an appearance. But under the cover of visiting her Ma, Megan could carry a message to Frankie’s comrades, and bring back further instructions.

Not that her scruples allowed her to be entirely committed to the cause. Frankie suspected that her loyalties were more to him personally than to the IRA: he’d been friends with Michael, her brother, before he’d been killed. Megan was carefully asking him, ‘So many deaths, Frankie… Don’t you ever feel guilty being a part of it all?’ She spoke low, though no one would hear them over the music from Rory’s cassette player.

They were down at the docks, the _Voyager_ waiting there in the water now, snug and shipshape, with an empty hold. Frankie stared across at the boat. ‘Of course there’s guilt,’ he said, ‘sleepless nights. No one’s innocent over there. It’s war. Everyone has their ghosts.’

People were innocent here in America, though, Rory reflected. There was room and peace and plenty in this land, and people had the opportunity to grow up with their decency and compassion intact. Even Frankie McGuire’s ghosts had hushed themselves a little while he lived here.

Megan was gazing at him, looking for reassurance, imploring him for… a little affection. Frankie had kissed her on the cheek when they first met here in America, a friendly kiss for the sake of her being poor Michael’s sister; and she’d said, What wouldn’t I have given for _that_ when I was thirteen!

Well, he’d heard that and understood she used to like him; sitting here with her, he understood that she liked him still. It wasn’t that Frankie was completely oblivious about this kind of thing – just unlucky, and rather inexperienced, and forever distracted by the day-to-day fight for the cause. With the notable exception now of Rory’s relations with Tom O’Meara. Which had led Rory to believe that his basic yearnings were for men, though he found he was willing enough to offer Megan some kind of comfort. Ah, this was getting too complicated…

Going with the inspiration of the moment, Frankie stood up, took Megan’s hand and led her closer to the cassette player, where they easily shifted together and began slow-dancing. Megan needed little encouragement: within moments she was pressing kisses to his throat, nuzzling at him, her body sinuous under his tentative hands.

And he was responding to her, breathless with the unlooked-for sensuality of it. Would he rather be with Tom? Yes, he thought; but this was lovely in its own right. Frankie had never been with a woman, and the calculating part of him supposed that Megan was his best chance… But Rory decided not to take advantage. She was already risking enough for Frankie’s sake with her journey to Belfast.

This was so pleasant, though. Megan was beginning to close in for a kiss… Rory was tempted, found himself waiting for her mouth to meet his, parting his lips, closing his eyes… Any moment now, and perhaps he would simply surrender to her spell.

Laughter, and a sharp burst of light: Frankie turned to see Sean-the-fool with a camera, having caught them in the act. Which basically had the same effect as a bucket of cold water. Frankie and Megan parted, and soon afterwards the young woman asked Sean to drive her home. Ah well, Sean was right: Frankie had the Devil’s own luck in love…

♦

Tragedy struck.

Three thugs in ski-masks broke into the O’Meara family home. Tom and Rory struggled with them, and managed to frighten them off, but only after Sheila was held hostage for an unbearably long minute or two, with a gun shoved in her pretty face…

They told the story to the patrol cops who answered Sheila’s 911 call, and then Tom sent Sheila off to stay at her sister’s place with the girls for the sake of safety. In the aftermath, Rory had disappeared, gone who-knew-where.

Alone in the house (ears ringing with the silence), Tom wandered around, trying to figure out what the thugs had wanted. Nothing of any value had been disturbed. Perhaps they’d arrived only moments before Tom, and hadn’t had the chance to grab whatever it was they were after. Or… Tom eventually headed down to the basement, and discovered that everything there had been trashed, overturned, slashed. So, they’d been looking for something of Rory’s…

Tom was more successful than the thugs had been. There was an obscene amount of money in a canvas bag hidden under the false floor of the bathroom; American hundred-dollar bills, so many wads of them Tom couldn’t even guess at the total. Head reeling, he turned the light off, and waited for his lover to return, standing there alone in the dark trying to figure it all out.

At last the front door opened and closed, and footsteps hesitated above Tom in the hallway; no doubt Rory was surprised to find the house apparently empty. Then Rory trotted down the stairs, turned the light on, and headed directly for the bathroom.

‘Who are you?’ Tom demanded, stepping out of the shadows. Rory immediately came to a halt, turned and considered the cop with those luminous blue eyes. ‘Did you bring this into my house?’

‘Yes.’

Well, Tom supposed he could respect the young man for not bothering to deny it. Letting the bag fall heavily to the ground at his feet, Tom asked, ‘What’s the money for?’

Rory stood there watching him, silent, taking his turn to re‑figure the odds.

Tom had reached a nasty conclusion or two. The only real puzzle remaining was to wonder why he hadn’t managed to add it up before; there had been so many hints of one kind or another, there had even been a moment last night in the car when Rory might have told him of his own volition. Tom answered his own questions now: ‘I’m thinking IRA. I’m thinking guns.’

Again, there was no attempt at denial. Instead Rory explained the Belfast situation, tears welling in his eyes; he shared a little more of his own life, heart pouring out to Tom…

And Tom understood, he really did. As Rory suggested, if Tom had survived the same grief and horror that Rory had, then Tom would no doubt have committed the same crimes. But the killing had to end somewhere, and a crime was a crime no matter how good the reasons behind it.

A car drew up outside, footsteps headed across the hallway –

Rory had come closer, reaching for the bag of money; saying firmly but with no explanation, ‘I have to go.’ Secure in the knowledge that Tom loved him, Tom would never harm him –

Eddie Diaz, Tom’s partner, appeared on the stairs –

Tom made his move. He took firm hold of Rory, shoved him face-first to the wall (dear God, the very wall they’d made love against), and cuffed him. ‘I’m taking you in.’

♦

Despite frantic thoughts of Sean, Frankie quietly bided his time, sitting handcuffed in the back seat of Tom’s car as Diaz drove them towards the police station. Tom was soon lulled into drifting off with his own thoughts, for Frankie let nothing of his intentions show on his face. When Diaz left the car mid-traffic-jam to insist a parked truck clear out of the way, then Frankie could at last seize the opportunity…

A well-aimed kick knocked Tom out cold. Frankie took the keys from the ignition and the gun from Tom’s belt, working quickly, efficiently. By the time Diaz realized what was going on, Frankie was out of the car and reaching for the bag of money in the boot.

‘Hey!’

Diaz and Frankie held each other at gun-point for a long moment. Frankie knew this man had killed before, unlike Tom; and once a man crossed that line, well, he could never hope to go back. When Frankie saw Diaz begin to nerve himself up, Frankie shook his head. _Don’t mess with me_. Frankie had crossed the line a decade or more ago.

The cop wasn’t wise enough to heed the warning – Frankie fired twice, and hit his mark. Diaz was down.

Tom came flying out of nowhere, slamming the boot shut and breaking the key. The money was lost now, locked in the car. A brief tussle before Frankie knocked Tom out again, and then Frankie ran for it…

What Tom didn’t know was Billy Burke, that most stupid of men, had kidnapped Sean as surety. Burke’s bright idea was that Frankie would complete the original deal, give him the money in return for the stinger missiles, and then Burke would release Sean.

For a fleeting moment, sitting in the back of that car, Rory had considered asking Tom for help. Whatever happened afterwards was irrelevant when weighed against the danger Sean was in from those single-minded morons. Surely Tom would have helped rescue Rory’s friend…? But Frankie didn’t ask. He didn’t ask.

And it turned out to be too late for poor Sean anyway. No more designer clothes, no more fancy cars, no more American girls; unless of course God gave Sean those things in heaven…

Frankie killed Burke and all his thugs, and took the van full of missiles. There was one last stop to make, to ask Megan to deliver a slightly different message, and then Frankie would head down to the docks.

Sure, he’d sail the missiles back to Belfast in the _Voyager_ as planned. But when he got there he wouldn’t be sneaking in – he’d be delivering the missiles directly to the enemy, with extreme prejudice. It would be grand. Francis McGuire, Avenging Angel, would win the war single-handedly, or die trying.

♦

Dawn.

Tom knew that if he didn’t bring Rory in alive, then Frankie McGuire was not long for this world. He tracked Rory to the boat, and leapt aboard as it pulled away from the dock.

There were boxes of missiles sitting there under canvas. Tom spent a moment pondering what he might have done without that pile of destruction tipping the scales: could he have let Rory slip through his fingers, to face the relative safety of a lone Atlantic crossing and a return to Belfast? No, probably not even then could Tom have let Rory go. The SAS would be waiting for Frankie if he got home, waiting with deadly intent.

Rory, though, refused to let Tom take him in. ‘I’m not going back,’ he said, with an adamant coolness that was impossible to argue with.

‘The killing has to stop,’ Tom told him, trying anyway.

‘Then you’re going to have to kill me in order to stop the killing,’ Rory said calmly. ‘It gets complicated, doesn’t it?’ He disappeared around the front of the wheel-house.

The two men circled, each stalking their prey… And when they saw each other through the wheel-house window, there was an instinctive exchange of gunfire, glass shattering and confusing their aim.

Tom was wounded; a bullet lodged fire in his right shoulder. He stumbled back, dropping the gun from nerveless fingers, falling to the floor.

Rory appeared, his own gun held firm in both hands, aiming it at Tom’s chest. Tom was shocked to realize that Rory intended to finish the deed, and in cold blood. All he’d have to do right now was pull the trigger, and Tom wouldn’t even know about it… His mind was too blank to utter a prayer, his eyes fixed dazedly on the face of his lover, the last thing he’d see on this earth.

But Rory’s hands were shaking; and though he spoke harsh words, he couldn’t seem to find the necessary implacability. His face went alarmingly pale. And then the young man slumped to the floor, ending up sitting just through the open doorway from where Tom waited. His own hands trembling, Tom batted Rory’s damned gun safely out of the way, and opened up the man’s jacket.

It seemed that Rory’s wounds were fatal.

♦

He wanted to say, Hold me, Tom. Hold me. Gather me up and let me fall asleep in your arms.

But he didn’t ask. Cold creeping up from his feet, his legs useless, his body shuddering beyond control, something vital broken inside of him…

Rory grasped hard at Tom’s arm. ‘This is an Irish story; there are no happy endings.’

♦

Sloane, the British SAS Agent who’d tracked Frankie McGuire to America, tried to reassure Tom. ‘These men: they won’t come in alive. Not if they can help it.’

Tom had never heard an English accent sound so cold. Almost snarling at the cruel, self-satisfied bastard, Tom said, ‘You don’t give them the choice.’

A long moment passed as the soldier stared at the cop; the frightening thing was that Sloane looked like pure Establishment. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Sloane commented at last. ‘Neither did you.’

If Tom was the kind to spit on a man, he would have. As it was, he turned away, and went to handle all the mundane paperwork relating to his retirement. Which wasn’t so easy, with his right arm uselessly bound up tight in a sling; Tom had to ask the personnel officer to complete the forms for him, and then he signed them left-handed, illegible but determined.

Afterwards, he went home to his wife, intending to stay there forever.

Tom and Sheila O’Meara sent Rory’s body back to his comrades in Belfast to be laid to rest; they asked that Frankie be buried next to his father if possible, though they assumed the IRA would want to keep their martyred soldier nearby.

The O’Meara family wanted to express their love for Rory in some way, so they planted a tree in the churchyard, and had a plaque made for it with both the man’s names: In memory of Francis McGuire (Rory Devaney); May God grant him peace.

Rory, Tom figured, was at heart a decent man, thwarted and twisted by horrible circumstances. But he’d brought friendship and joy into Tom’s life, and that was more valuable than Tom had words to describe: he’d needed to know that was one of the things that men do.

So, life went on, with all its simplicities and complexities. The girls never quite forgave their father for killing Rory. And, well, Tom never quite forgave himself, either. But life went on.

♦


End file.
